


The Deal We Made

by vamm_goda



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2011 season, Dare, M/M, NHL All-Star Weekend, Oral Sex, Philadelphia Flyers, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:15:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4231851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamm_goda/pseuds/vamm_goda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claude lost this little bet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deal We Made

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Paul Simon's Proof.  
> Inspired by the 2011 All Star Game, particularly the draft order. Also, I had no idea I have been writing off and on in this fandom for 4 years now. Yikes.

The second Kaner starts talking about Buffalo (and he can’t fucking leave out the comment about ‘when I was growing up’ like Danny is ancient, because he’s a douche and everyone either loves him or hates him for it) Danny’s hand tightens on Claude's knee, and by the time Danny hears his name he’s halfway onto his feet, sliding into the aisle with an awkward shutter stop side effect. Claude can see just the side of his face, just a profile, and the smile that looks smug on his face, that's a smile he knows well enough. It's Danny trying to retain some semblance of his cool when all he wants to do is grin like a maniac. He’s seen that look a lot lately, between the fantastic games he’s been playing, and the boys have been playing. Danny always tries to stay so even keel about it, like he’s not hopping up and down and shouting like a child inside his own head, like he has some sort of image to maintain.

Claude’s still sitting in the audience, seat next to him now empty, and he’s keenly aware of everyone around him making note of this fact, like there was really any rivalry there, instead of just honest excitement that Danny’s up there.

Well, okay. A _little_ rivalry. Compounded when the world’s most ridiculously awkward announcer (and Claude’s a hockey player, he knows _all_ about awkward in the face of microphones) asks Danny a passably clever question about trucks and his sister. Instead of taking the opportunity he’s been given to make some cute quip and get straight to his seat Danny turns and looks right at Claude, as if he can pick him out of the dim audience, and offers “Well, you know what it does is bragging rights at home. I have a friend that’s still sitting in the crowd.”

And of course the announcer takes that as the Danny Given Gift that it is, because the two of them have been like the default byline for every story coming out of the All Star Weekend. He snatches his microphone back as though he’s scared Danny is gonna bite it and points out needlessly “That would be your _house mate_ Claude Giroux,” as if every single person in the room didn’t already _know_ that they live together. And then he keeps going with some bullshit about not condoning wagers, but is there a side bet there?

Claude knows the camera’s gonna pan to him at some point. He’s not sure where in the editing process it’s gonna be, so he’s been trying to keep his face level and easy, but he can’t resist a little bit of a reaction here. A bite, drawing his lower lip into his mouth and then pouting it out like he’s upset, like he’s _embarrassed_ to still be sitting there when in reality he’s counting his blessings that he’s made it here at all, regardless of pick order. He doesn’t plan on letting anything besides that come through, that hint of sheepishness, that acceptance of his fate as the funny man of the moment but he can’t seem to hide how goddamned _proud_ he is of Danny, of seeing his best friend up there wearing the blue.

“There is. Uh, some bragging rights,” Danny admits. “The boys were, uh. They were, uh, discussing the situation earlier today.”

This announcer really is the most awkward man on the planet it seems like, digging for something he’s not really sure he’s gonna find, so Danny shuts him down politely when asked about what sort of wagers have gone on by firmly but politely telling him “Well, we can’t tell,” with a little wiggle of his shoulders as though he’s really sorry about that.

Claude has to sit through name after name, getting increasingly twitchy with each second, and then his name is being called but it’s by Staal, and he’s on his feet, making his way down there and trying not to focus on how full the rows are, how _white_ his jersey is, like the hero of a Western that he's never watched, and how Danny’s eyes are tracking his every move, how he has that little smile on his face the whole time.

\\\

They’re not exactly sharing rooms. They’re on the same floor, but Danny has his kids to look after and they both have parents, and Cam insists that he wants to sleep in Claude’s room even though that leaves Caelan with a room to himself and Danny’s really not sure how he feels about a preteen in possession of his own hotel room even if he can check on him through that creepy wall door.

It’s not like they have the All Star Weekend to themselves or anything, between their respective families (apparently their sisters get along like the Briere and Giroux families really were separated at birth, and their moms resolve to do some family tree research the second they get home) and the skills tests and the games, but the boys do _not_ let Claude forget that their dad got picked first, that he was “like top ten picks” first, and he shouldn’t but he finds it completely adorable when they chirp at him like they’re tiny badasses with bragging rights, which they totally are. It’s something he’s never gonna live down, and they didn’t even make a wager in _earshot_ of anyone. It’s just that their families know them well enough to know there had to have been a wager of some sort, both men fully confident in their ability to win it, and they keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Claude to wear a tiara to one of the skills tests or something. When nothing happens right away they begin to forget about it and Claude’s able to make it through the weekend with only the amount of massive shit talking that he had already expected.

It’s really weird when their dads start asking about it, but they just keep repeating that it’s between them, and the general consensus at the end of the Weekend is that Claude’s gonna be stuck with a lot of chores for a month or something ridiculously lame and domestic like that, because the two of them are both ridiculously lame _and_ domestic.

When they get back home Sylvie’s all but camped out on their porch waiting for her boys, and they swarm their mother with all the stories about the things they got to see and do, the people they met, when they were there. They’re all heroically unimpressed with Ovie despite the Russian's best efforts and she applauds them for their good taste while she helps them get settled. She’s missed her sons, it’s clear on her face as she watches them racing around, and Danny’s not a jerk even when he might have every right to be, so he offers her a trade of three days for three days and she hugs him as the boys get their things together and load into her car. They complain, but it’s more for the disruption of the Schedule than because they don’t wanna go. Fact is they have been missing their mother a little bit more than usual lately.

When they drive off it’s up to Danny and Claude to put the house back into order after Hurricane Briere blew through, picking up the little things young kids tend to shed like leaves even when they’re being _really careful_ about where things go. The dogs are still at Sylvie’s, almost like she expected to be bringing the boys back with her, so at least that's one chore down.

“You lost,” Danny points out casually as he starts a load of darks, and Claude sighs because yeah, he sorta already knew that.

“No need to get all dramatic about it.”

Danny’s smile is showing a little bit of canine as he leans against the washer, watching Claude dig through their bags and fling things into the right piles as he goes. “C’mere.”

Now _that_ Claude is happy to do, rising out of his crouch smoothly but slowly, like he hasn’t been waiting for the invitation since they got home.

The kiss is more to soothe Claude’s dinged ego than anything, Danny leaning up and sliding their lips together while Claude’s hands settle on his hips, fingers tightening and loosening on the weirdly textured fabric of his slacks. He doesn’t press Danny back like he wants to, because as awesome as making out on a running washing machine looks in the movies it’d just be awkward for them.

When Danny pulls back he tugs on one of Claude’s curls, twisting the short length around his fingers and watching the way the light catches on the red gold of it. His smile gets a little rueful and Claude kisses him again because he dislikes seeing that wistful look in Danny’s eyes, even though he knows that all Danny thinks about anymore is him. Danny tangles his hands deeper in his curls at that, tugging just to the point of pain until Claude gasps and Danny can slick their tongues together, hunger making him a touch messier than he normally is.

Danny is a meticulous, meticulous person, and Claude loves how his lips darken when they’ve been kissing for a while, how his mouth glistens and his hair stands in disarray when he finally winds his fingers through it and holds Danny still, mapping his way through his mouth however he wants to. He’s not meticulous then, he looks ruffled and used, and Claude loves seeing that look on him. He figures at some point he’ll know Danny so well that he won’t feel this little thrill each time he touches him, and he hates that future day like he hates a cheap shot to the _jock_.

Then again, this is Danny and maybe that’ll never happen because Danny always manages to surprise him.

“Bet,” he whispers against his lips once Claude releases his tongue back to his control. “You made a bet, Claude. And I’m pretty sure you know I won.”

“The whole _country_ knows you won.” He tries not to sound petulant, even though he can feel that edge sneaking out. Danny’s always been clear with how he feels about Claude playing up their age difference, and he’s so hyper conscious of never appearing _too young_ that sometimes he has to check himself before he says something in case he’ll make Danny guilt trip.

“I know.” Now that’s his smug smile, the one that lifts his lips off his teeth a little bit, shows just the edge of sharpness to his mouth and Claude bites at his lips because he can resist no easier than he can stop worrying about breathing.

Danny’s thumb brushes against his lips, hot and a little rough against the sensitive skin, and Claude parts his mouth to take him in, sliding the edge of crooked front teeth over the nail, catching on the joint while his tongue works the pad of Danny's thumb like memorizing. Danny sucks in a breath and Claude begins to suck lightly, watching the way his eyes get darker, the faint color along his cheekbones as Claude's teeth close over him, holding him there so Claude can work over him and taste him. It’s not great, his mouth feels too empty and Danny tastes too much like outside influences but he will never say no to being able to watch Danny’s face this easily, the way his breathing makes his chest hitch and his lips fall open, breath panting out and Claude can’t tell if he wants more, or if he wants something to work his lips over as well.

Whatever, they have a bet and that’s what matters, and Danny won which also matters, but mainly it’s that he wants to do it, always has and always will.

He releases Danny’s thumb with a wet pop, lets it drag against his lips to wet them, and it almost doesn’t matter because Danny’s eyes don’t leave his. They’re black and he always thought black was cold, but it’s not. It _burns_.

“God,” Danny whispers, and his finger is wet when he places it on Claude’s cheek, tracing the line of his jaw and leaving a chill in his wake. “God, Claude it’s just.”

It’s just that it's still new enough that Danny marvels. Hell, Claude marvels and he thinks that he himself will probably never _stop_ and that’s great because he can show Danny this look on his face every day for the rest of his life or maybe eternity.

The floor is cold here, industrial tile, so he turns his head, leaving Danny’s palm open on the empty air. He catches three fingers with his mouth, slicking his tongue over them before lowering his face, drawing them into his mouth and closing the space with a little suck. Danny’s eyes go from black to impenetrable in seconds, and Claude catches his wrist, taking a slow step backward, sliding his body back until only the tips of Danny's fingers press against his lips.

Danny follows, and Claude rewards him by twisting his tongue around his fingers, drawing them in again, sucking wetly. Danny still follows, and it’s only a few steps to the hallway but those steps are important—tile is hell on the knees.

When they’re in the hall Claude finally lets him go and Danny lets himself collapse, back to the wall behind him as one hand twists into Claude’s curls, the other stroking over the soft skin of the insides of his cheeks.

Claude pulls back slowly, and Danny’s voice catches in his throat at that loss of contact, his fingers wet and obscenely useless when they’re both too clothed to make use of them. It doesn’t matter; they had a bet and Claude keeps his word, would even if he didn’t love this, know how much Danny loves it.

He’s never gone to his knees for anyone, has caused his share of bruises and semi legal hits for the implication, but this is Danny and his slacks are rough against Claude’s cheek when he presses his face to his thigh, just looking up at him for a few seconds.

Danny’s hand is wet pressed to the wall, the other hand lifts to card through his curls and he murmurs “like fucking gold,” in an awed voice, never looking away from the way light falls over Claude like a freaking Botticelli painting or something.

Claude’s never been perfect at schooling his face, and right now he doesn’t want to. He knows his naked regard in the draft was potentially risky for all that he couldn’t control it, but right now he doesn’t have to worry about anything except looking at Danny so he does, at the fine sheen of sweat gathering at his hairline, at the perfect pink flush covering his cheeks and throat. He wonders if his own mouth looks as red as Danny’s and decides it’s probably more so, kiss swollen and wet, and he leans forward to press a kiss to Danny's still clothed hip while the older man’s fingers work convulsively against his head. Each point of contract feels like an electric jolt and Claude leans into it, pressing and encouraging until Danny’s fingers tighten and he pulls, just a touch. Just enough.

Danny's belt is easy to unthread, pulling it from the loops and setting it aside as he keeps kissing the sharp blade of bone he can feel under his clothes. Danny’s never been built, never sculpted like some of the guys but that’s okay because he’s relentlessly strong anyway. Claude was planning on taking his time with this but then Danny pulls harder, and he moans, breath hot against the fabric and his hands are working, getting the slacks open and pushed off in one quick motion, thumbs hooking in his briefs and stripping them off so fast Danny stumbles a little bit, catching himself with the hand in Claude’s hair and Claude doesn’t even bother to swallow his moan this time, pressing up into it.

“Getting impatient?” he teases, and all Danny does is growl, low in his throat and making Claude’s toes curl inside his dress shoes until he can’t talk anymore. Until he’s leaning up and biting that little place of softness on the inside of Danny’s thigh, breathing deep and steady.

Danny’s hand tightens again, convulsive, and it’s request enough except that the words “Please” and “Claude” and “Fuck” come spilling out of his throat in no particular order and Claude groans and licks up him, taking him into his mouth with a low sound, request granted when Danny starts to paw at his hair.

It’s taken time but Danny isn’t ridiculously long or wide, just _perfect_ , and he takes him in without needing to readjust. Claude goes down on him, slow and easy, fingers stroking over his thighs, playing with his balls as he feels Danny’s skin flush more and more against his hands, heating up like he’s an inferno. He’s heavy on his tongue, and Claude leans back a little, slick and a little sloppy, because then he can see Danny’s face, how he’s watching him like he’s in shock and also dying. Danny can’t seem to breathe right, it hitches his chest like he forgets and then has to rush and catch up and Claude sucks hard at his head, watching that reaction with a little smirk as he works his tongue against his slit.

They don’t have to be quiet here, it’s a novelty, but he almost misses the sight of Danny shoving his fist in his mouth to muffle his high, keening moans.

Danny’s hands are tight to the point of pain in his hair and he has a second to respond, to swallow him down just to the point of choking before Danny fucks against him once, twice, then comes, forcing Claude to lean back onto his heels so he can swallow. It’s messy and he can feel streaks of it across his lips and chin and his whole mouth tastes like Danny and it’s amazing.

“God,” Danny gasps into the open air, leaning back against the wall as Claude lets him slip from his lips, tongue darting out to clean himself up. “God, you need to lose all the bets.”

His knees hurt a little and his jaw is sore, but he’s not gonna lie. “If that’s always the condition then I really, really do.”

Danny’s eyes are a little hazy but it’s not like it’s an unknown quantity that Claude loves giving Danny head so he just smiles, a little crooked and a lot blissed out.

Claude loves giving Danny head, loves the feel and the taste and the smell of it, even loves going to his knees for him and letting him fuck his mouth in a way he never thought he would, but he’s not entirely selfless, either.

He also loves how Danny always gives him a really thorough rimming before returning the favor later.


End file.
